The Wistful Mountain
The snow did not fall; it struck. It hammered against the thick, salt-crusted glass of the watchtower, a relentless, white violence that erased the world beyond the stone. You stood in the center of the room, the floorboards groaning under the weight of the silence, your breath pluming in the cold air that seeped through the mortar of the ancient walls. This was the keep, the last bastion of...
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